Drowning in the Fire
by AIs4Awsome
Summary: ALL MY OWN CHARACTERS. eighteen year old emma has just had a bit of a breakdown and the only way of dealing with it is by jumping into her car and driving until she reaches the small Arkansas town of Silent Hollow and gets a job working at a backwoods diner where she meets two boys that arent entirely what they seem. my god that sounds cheesy...just read and review pleassee


**Please read & review.:) seriously considering maybe publishing this one day if all goes relativley well. It's still a work in progress (obviously). **

One

Everything in the room screamed that I didn't belong; the chipped piss yellow paint on the walls, the dirt and grime encrusted windows, the ugly floral duvet covering the sagging - no doubt bedbug infested - mattress. In all honestly I wouldn't have expected anything less from a place called Uncle Tom's Honky Tonkin' Roadside Motel, a place that, whether I knew it or not, would become my home for the next two and a half months.

I could've done worse. I mean, old Uncle Tom himself assured me - or rather my boobs seeing as the conversation seemed to be directed solely at them rather than my face - that it's been a whole month since they found that prostitute's body in the outdoor pool and, oh look, there's some relatively clean towels in the bathroom…that reek of subpar weed and strawberry flavored lube. Goody. Still, it would have to beat sleeping in the cramped backseat of my Toyota Corolla, something I will reluctantly admit I've been doing for what…four, five nights now?

"Now, I know it ain't exactly Buckingham Palace," I hear Tom croak in his so far-south-you-may-as-well-be-in-Mexico,-essay accent as he begins to furiously scratch at his balding head in a way that gives me the sudden urge to marinate myself in a tub of Melvitza Anti Lice shampoo. "But the air conditioner works and the bed's just been de-loused so you should be all set," He gives an awkward cough and I can tell from the hesitation in his voice that he's half expecting me to complain about the urine stain in front of the television or the overwhelming sulfuric stench of the water softener; to throw a fit, to turn into the cartoon cutout upper middle class blonde bitch that I no doubt look like if my box dyed hair, manicured nails and pink cardigan are anything to go by.

"Now if you be needin' anything I'll just be in my office. Have your-self a good stay, Ms. Grant."

Before I can offer him so much as a thank you, the man's out the door and out into the hallway. The heavy wooden door closes behind him with a resounding bang, puncturing the heavy silence that seems to be perpetually hanging over me like some kind of morbid dark cloud ever since I'd left Houston five days ago.

The minute he's gone, I automatically reach into the back pocket of my denim shorts for my cell phone only to stop myself mid-motion; just in time to remember that I chucked the damn thing out the driver's side window as I drove over the borderline into Arkansas early this morning. It was right after Brent had called me for what felt like the hundredth time since I'd up and left Houston. You would think that after eight days of total silence he'd get the hint. Then again, looking back, Brent was never really the brightest bulb in the box.

From April of junior year to June of senior year, Brent had been drawing a picture of me, but everything was in the wrong place. When he was drunk at parties, Brent would squeeze my skinny butt and make remarks about my "big ass". He pressured me to dye my hair blonde and then nodded in approval when the deed was done and told me it was a "huge improvement" when I really just looked like I was trying too hard to be his personal Cheerleader Barbie. He would call me cute when I was trying to sound mad. He found it amusing to introduce me as "Emma, my girlfriend with no sense of humor." But my fellow cheer leading friends (back when Brent let me _have_ friends that is) would say I was the funny one.

He met my family and found them "perfectly nice" and "too sentimental" when it's blatantly obvious that my mother is a total control freak and my step father is a money obsessed borderline mute with the mentality of a Teletubby.

If Brent described me to you, you would never have known it was me.

The thing is… I began to think that maybe his picture was right and mine was wrong. And then I went and had what some might call an "epiphany" (or a complete mental breakdown, depending on who you asked) and broke up with him over voice mail three weeks after graduation.

The mere thought of my mind-fuck ex-boyfriend makes me want to run out into the motel parking lot and jump right back into my car and keep on driving but I know, whether I like it or not, I've already reached my destination. I have soaring gas prices and my new found addiction for In-N'-Out burgers (my personal 'screw you' to the ridiculously restricted carb-free diet Brent had me on since junior year) to blame for that little setback. Long story short: I'm the definition of broke. As of right now the only way I'm going to be to get out of this little pooh hole of a town let alone pay for this motel room is with the desperate hope that I'll be able to find a temporary job in town within the next few days. Though by the looks of things, that may not go so well. My experience driving through the diminutive mountainside hamlet of Silent Hollow, in Franklin County, Arkansas this afternoon could only be described as painfully underwhelming. It's pretty much your typical back woods, hillbilly dwelling, moonshine swilling, postage stamp sized southern town complete with plaid-and-overall wearing, banjo playing, church obsessed hicks.

Sighing, I pick my single suitcase up from off the grimy floor and begin the tedious task of unpacking my toiletries in the bathroom while simultaneously trying my best to avoid the large black house spider situated in the corner between the shower stall and the toilet. As I plunk my shampoo and conditioner onto the bathroom counter I accidently catch a fleeting glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror. I'm not surprised by the reflection that greets me; greasy hair, smudged mascara, swollen eyes, wrinkled cardigan; already a shadow of the person that first started out on this this little adventure nearly a week ago. I am also living, breathing proof that nobody who ever slept in the backseat of a car for five straight nights wakes up looking like a Miss America participant the next day.

Alright then.

What I need is a shower; only I'm going to have to somehow figure out how to take one without picking up an STD - or worse - from the disgustingly filthy shower stall. I pull back the shower curtain – something that looks like it could quiet have possibly been a fat woman's waterproof moo moo in another life – and try not dry heave in disgust at the sordid condition of it. Just looking at the layers of mold and soap scum causes such a heavy wave of exhaustion to come crashing over me, quite nearly bringing me to my knees. I'm suddenly too tired to deal with the mess let alone undress, shower and unpack. Especially since that bed is beginning to look pretty damn inviting, with its promise that I'll be able to pull off a full night's sleep without having a car door handle or a seatbelt holder digging into my back.

"Oh, screw it," I say aloud. I can just deal with this later. I dump the rest of my toiletries haphazardly onto the counter and then pad back into the main room before flopping heavily onto the bed. There's a loud groan in protest from the mattress springs but, surprisingly, they don't give out, thank God. I lie there on the bed for what feels like a very long time, allowing my mind to wander. I don't even bother to turn on the bedside lamp when the glaring sun finally sinks behind the Ozark Mountain range looming stoically in the not-too-far-off distance, shrouding the room in total darkness. It's around this time that I finally make up my mind and reach over for the call button on the bedside phone. The receiver feels like it's covered in pond scum and the dial tone seems to be coming from North Dakota. I'm surprised that I can actually hear the call start and then Mom's voice when she picks up on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

I mean, I knew she'd answer. But I'm still a little dumb-struck.

"Hey, Mom." I say finally. Immediately, I thrust the phone away from my ear and brace myself.

"EMMA?! EMMA! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?! " Even though the phone is a whole arm's span away I can still hear the painfully raw anger and worry in her voice.

I cringe and bring the phone back up to my mouth to mutter a quick, "Um, Arkansas." before thrusting the phone away from my face again.

"ARKANSAS? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN ARKANSAS?! AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU NOT ANSWERING YOUR DAMN PHONE?!"

Timidly I place the receiver to my ear. "Okay, I know you're probably freaking out right now and that's completely understandable," I say carefully, attempting some serious damage control here," but, Mom, I need you to calm down and promise that you won't have me shot when I tell you what I'm doing here. Alright?"

But she ignores me. Completely.

"Two days ago you said you were in Dallas, Emma. _Dallas_. Now what the hell are you doing all the way out in Arkansas? And why the _hell_ aren't you picking up your phone? I've been trying to get a hold of you _all day_."

_So much for damage control…_

"I kind of, sort of lost my cell," I say, silently praying she can't hear the obvious lie in my voice "And I ran out of money." I admit reluctantly, that part being unfortunately and undeniably true. "But don't worry, I'm going to get a job in town and then –"

"You _what_?" she shrieks, so loud I'm surprised the whole damn motel doesn't hear her.

Okay.

On one hand, I totally understand her reaction. Yes, her only baby has gone out into the big bad scary world with little more than a few bucks in the bank and the clothes on her back, clinging to some half-baked hope of "finding herself". I get it. The whole thing screams bad news bears, not to mention is beginning to sound suspiciously like the paper-thin plot of a bad John Hughs movie. On the other hand, all this shrieking and yelling is beginning to get old. Fast. I don't think me and Mom have had a real honest-to-God conversation without one of us going to conniptions in weeks, if not months. And this definitely isn't helping.

"How the hell did you run out of money? You had five hundred dollars in your account only a week ago!" she just about wails. I glance up at the dark ceiling and exhale slowly, searching for patience that I know I won't find.

"Mom, gas is expensive. And honestly, it's not a huge deal…"

"Not a huge deal? For Christ's sake, Emma, you're half way across the country with no money and no phone!"

"Yeah, I know, but it's gonna be _okay_." I say injecting my voice with some much needed false optimism." Listen, I'm staying at motel right now - which, I'd like to point out, has a perfectly good phone - and first thing tomorrow I'm going to go into town and find a job. See? No big deal; I'll find a job, make a bit of money and then I'll be home by the end of the summer, okay?"

"So you think you can go out and find a job just like that…in _this_ economy?" she demands, sounding more than just a little skeptical.

"Um, yes?"

I can just imagine Mom shaking her head and rolling her eyes at that. She lets out a sigh, making the phone go all crackly. There's a brief moment of agonizing silence and then, "Emma, what are you doing?"

"Mom, I just told you. I'm staying at a motel and -"

"That's not what I mean. What I mean is, what are you doing going off on this whole "finding yourself" stint?" she practically spits out the words "finding yourself". "This isn't like you, Emma."

"Look, everything's fine, Mom." I say, trying my best to sound in control and reassuring. "I just need some space to figure some things out, that's all."

There's another silence and I'm just beginning to wonder if she's hung up on me or something when she says, "This doesn't happen to have anything to do with Brent, does it?"

Well. I can't say I saw that one coming.

"No. _God_, no," I say a little too fast, shaking my head furiously in the dark, temporarily forgetting the fact that there is no way in hell she can see me right now.

"Of course not."

_Pause. Pause. Pause._

"Are you sure? Because ever since you two broke up you've been acting like…like…"

I know I'm going to regret this but…

"Like what, Mom?"

"Like…like some kind of – I don't know - _crazy person_." She says, furiously muttering that last bit under her breathe as if, God forbid, the neighbors will overhear her condemning her head cheerleader-turned-potential mental hospital escapee daughter over the telephone. "Emma, when you break up with someone you get a god awful haircut, rent _Titanic_, and drown your sorrows in a pint of Ben and Jerry's. I should know..."

"Mom, if this is going to turn into another bitch session about Dad I really don't think –" But she cuts me off entirely.

"You do _not_ get into a car and drive half way across the goddamn country." she finishes, breathing heavily now. "This is probably the single _dumbest _thing you've ever done, Emma."

I have to admit, I haven't seen Mom this riled since that time in junior year when I snuck out of the house at two in the morning to hang out with Brent on a school night. As I recall, that particular argument really piqued when, mid-tongue lashing, I tearfully screamed at her; "Why can't we be more like _Gilmore Girls_?!"

I'm half considering playing that particular card again when she says, "Listen, Emma, if you don't find a job within the next two days, I swear I will drive all the way out to whichever godforsaken back woods town you're in and pick you up myself. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," I say, trying not to flinch at the underlying threat in her voice.

"Good,"

I can hear her let out a small -somewhat reluctant - sigh of relief, no doubt satisfied that for once, I'm willing to comply. It should probably go without saying that Mom always had a difficult time playing the role of effective disciplinarian; this is no doubt a small victory for her.

"And don't think this little stunt doesn't mean you're not going to be attending Ol Miss in the fall because you damn well are." she adds warningly, as if the sole purpose of this whole road trip was a desperate attempt to get out of going away to university.

"I know, Mom."

"Good, because there is no way I'm shelling out twenty grand in tuition when it's clear you would rather –"

I glance at the bedside alarm clock. 9:32 p.m. Thank you, _God_.

"Hey, Mom, isn't _CSI _supposed to be on now?"

"What? Oh, shit," I can't help but smile, inwardly high fiving myself for avoiding part two of Mom's rant. "Channel twenty five, right?"

"Yep."

There's about twenty or so seconds of silence during which I know she's probably turning the T.V. on in the den and flipping through the channels.

"Okay. I'm going to get going now so promise me you'll give me a call tomorrow night, alright?"

"Yep, I will."

"I mean it, Emma. Or else I'm going to have to assume you've gone and gotten yourself killed by some incestuous, illiterate Chevy truck driving redneck. Or worse."

"Okay, Mom." I say, trying my best to keep the impatience from creeping into my voice_._

_ Please hang up, please hang up…_

"Good. Have a good night and try not to do anything too stupid, okay?"

"I won't and I'll call you tomorrow when I get back from town. Night, Mom."

"Goodnight, Emma."

She hangs up. No I love you or anything. Huh. How's that for dysfunctional?


End file.
